The first night it got down to freezing I couldn’t sleep thinking of him across the street in Turtle Park under not enough blankets. Earlier in the evening I had texted my two daughters to ask them if they thought I was crazy to want to buy him a tent. One of them said, “That’s sweet Mommy.” The other said, “What about a sleeping bag too.” Within minutes I was scrolling through the evil overlord Amazon, vowing to spend under $100. I sent my daughters photos of what I had in mind before I clicked “place order.”

In the morning he was gone. No red shopping cart. No mound of garbage bags packed full. No display of empty or half-filled juice bottles or cereal boxes. No expandable lounge chair or brown blanket. No sign of Henry.

I should have been relieved. After all, I’d been complaining about him for months. Complaining about how he had the audacity to spread his trash out in front of the Urgent Care or various restaurants on the block. I tried to explain to friends how he was different from other homeless folks. First of all, Henry is white. You don’t see many homeless white people in DC. And the black people who are homeless might panhandle and loiter, some selling Street Sense, some just rattling cups with a few coins. You might see them pushing a shopping cart full of belongings. But no one ever sets up camp, and spreads their stuff out to make their presence known right in the middle of a busy gentrified neighborhood. Not like Henry.

Turns out he grew up around here. Went to a local elementary and middle school. Some have said his mother still lives nearby but his father died. He’s about 40, the same age group as my adult children, except for the youngest who’s not yet 30. Which probably has a lot to do with my obsession, my love-hate relationship with Henry. I want him to disappear. And I want him to be safe and warm. I think he’s got a lot of nerve, hanging out in front of restaurants with window views onto the street while their wide screen tv’s show some game or other he wants to watch. Or playing solo hockey with the stick and puck he carries around, showing evident skill you could imagine someone applauding from the sidelines. Baggy t-shirt, long athletic shorts and now that it’s getting colder, a regimental hoodie. Like a normal guy. Like somebody’s son.

The day after Henry cleared out of Turtle Park, I spotted him on my way to the Metro, his packed shopping cart nearby. I don’t usually speak to him other than a quick hello but since he’s been keeping me awake at night I felt compelled to ask if he found somewhere warm to sleep the previous night. He said he’d gone to the Supreme Court to talk to Chief Justice Roberts and a few other people. That’s the thing about Henry: he fools you into thinking he’s normal and then you realize he’s really delusional. Probably why he can’t live with his own mother, or anyone else for that matter. Because like a lot of mentally deranged people he won’t take medication and is smart enough to sound rational some of the time.

During the summer when Henry was sleeping near where the vendors set up on Saturdays and Sundays at Eastern Market, I had a nice convo with one of them about how we both thought Henry’s behavior was a sign of white privilege. Funny thing to think about somebody who’s homeless. We agreed that his audacious intrusion into public space, as if he belonged there, as if anyone wanted to see his odd arrangements of assorted salvage were all definitely signs of privileged behaviors no black person would ever exhibit. Or if they did they’d be nabbed by police in a heartbeat. The vendor and I bonded over that; we understood one another and it felt good. But that was in the summertime, before I started obsessing about Henry being cold at night. Before I started peering out of my window to see if I could spot the shape of him bundled under a mountain of blankets. The way you listen down the hall to hear one of your kids in their room, to make sure they’re okay and sleeping soundly.

My Amazon purchase is due to arrive in a couple of days. I haven’t figured out how I’m going to present the tent and sleeping bag to Henry. I thought of leaving them secretly, but he’s normally vigilant over his possessions and doesn’t leave them unattended. And maybe there’s a part of me that wants him to thank me, that wants him to know I’ve been thinking about him out there in the cold. Of course like most moms I’ve bought my share of things my children didn’t want or that they felt the need to reject for some reason, as I did with my own mother. So I have to be prepared for my gifts to go unappreciated. I have to give with no expectation of getting anything back. I have to do this knowing it will change everything between us.